


Dirty Laundry

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Series: Flying Solo In Tandem [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Masturbation, Molly Doesn't Care, NSFW, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, WankLock, it's always the quiet ones, sexyfuntimes, slightly kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 23:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10372737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: He’s not proud of it. He never has been.He hates the .. helplessness of it. The embarrassment. The feeling of being led, a filthy schoolboy with an over-active cock. An addict, chasing tail the way he used to chase drugs. Every time he indulges himself, Sherlock ends up feeling.. sullied. Dirty. Animal. Dangerous. Every time he indulges, he swears it’s the last time, that he’ll never do it again.And yet... He always comes back to this fantasy. He always ends up thinking about Molly...Sherlock Holmes is about to be a Bit Not Good... And he can't bring himself to care.Follow-up fic to, "Please Cough."





	

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. A follow up to my other fic, Please Cough, which you should possibly read first...

* * *

**~ DIRTY LAUNDRY ~**

* * *

 

He’s not proud of it. He never has been.

He hates the .. helplessness of it. The embarrassment. The feeling of being led, a filthy schoolboy with an over-active cock. An addict, chasing tail the way he used to chase drugs. Every time he indulges himself, Sherlock ends up feeling.. sullied. Dirty. Animal. _Dangerous_. Every time he indulges, he swears it’s the last time, that he’ll never do it again.

_And yet..._

When he has his hand wrapped around his cock, when he’s pumping it fiercely in his fist and imagining it sliding inside Molly’s delectable, thin-lipped mouth, or inside her delectable, sweet-hot pussy, he can’t bring himself to regret what he’s doing. He may feel that it’s wrong in the cold light of day, but at night, when he’s alone, morality doesn’t matter. 

He feels the need for Molly acutely, something he does not enjoy admitting to anyone, even himself.

He doesn’t like how it started either- He’d walked in on her and Meat Dagger one night when he was looking for a bolt-hole and had been supplied with an eye-popping example of just what Molly Hooper sounded like when she was being fucked properly.

 _It had, he remembers,  been both wonderful and ever so slightly horrifying_.

He’d stood in her kitchen, helpless and embarrassed and buffering, as she moaned and howled and pleaded with Tom to continue. As she told him just what she wanted and just how much she wanted it from _him_. Sherlock had listened, wide-eyed, as she told Meat Dagger to fuck her because what she really needed tonight was a long, delicious, _filthy_  bloody screw-

It had been agonising: Sherlock had been torn between horror and fascination, unable to budge an inch. It was like discovering a door to another reality; Somehow he had always assumed that Molly Hooper was a sweet, vanilla sort of lover. That she’s want flowers and presents and would be shocked to try anything other than the missionary position.  The idea that she would be assertive in the bedroom had never occurred to him, just as the idea that he would find it sexy as fuck had never occurred to him-

The realisation had poleaxed him.

Sweet, innocent little Molly was a vixen of the most wanton, lascivious sort.

He’d run back to Baker Street like a mouse, his insides roiling with confusion and anger and, yes, arousal. He’d barely made it into the loo before his trousers were pulled roughly down, his cock thick and heavy and hot against his palm. He’d used some liquid hand-soap as lubricant that first night, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he relived every sound and every shudder he’d heard coming from Molly’s bedroom. As he imagined her, naked and wanton, her pretty little tits bouncing with each thrust, her beautiful throat bared to him as she threw her head back and told him she wanted It harder, faster, more, more, MORE.

It seemed like she just couldn’t get enough of his cock.

He’d imagined her totally naked, splayed across his lap. One of his hands was filled with her tits, the other was stroking and caressing her sweet, juicy little cunt. He’d pictured himself almost fully clothed, only his cock bare and inside her while he fucked her just like she wanted him to. _Like she begged him to_. In his mind they were on her couch, facing the door: Meat Dagger could come home any minute and catch them, but such was Molly’s desire for him and him alone that she simply didn’t care.

Every time Sherlock whispered this possibility to her, his voice cruel and gloating, she merely begged him not to stop.

“Fuck me,” she’d panted, “I don’t care who sees us. I don’t care who knows about us.

I only care about you- Just fuck me. _Please_ , fuck me.”

At that thought, Sherlock had come. The force of it had been enough to make his knees buckle. His entire body spasm. He’d come all over his trousers, the bathroom floor- Even the toilet seat hadn’t been spared. His belly had been spattered with the thick, sticky white proof of what an animal he’d been, how desperately he’d behaved-

For a moment all that had existed for him was his cock and his breath and the thunder-thunder-thunder of his drumbeating heart.

As he recovered though, Sherlock had slowly felt the pleasure of his fantasy and orgasm recede, to be replaced by an odd, morbid sort of horror with himself. A distaste- _No, a disgust_.

He felt as if he’d used Molly, used her as surely as if he’d actually had sex wit her while waiting for her fiancé to catch them. 

While he knew it was mere fantasy he couldn’t help his feeling that somehow he had sullied something between them. That he had let her down, let them both down- _It really had been the most peculiar thing-_

Sherlock had shaken himself. Forced himself to his feet. Cleaned himself up, brushed himself off. He’d wiped away the evidence of his activities and then headed straight to bed, telling himself all the while that he would never indulge himself in that way again. That if he _had_ to imagine a sexual partner, better The Woman or Janine, than someone as lost to him as surely as Molly Hooper- _His sweet, lovely, gentle Molly Hooper-_

She was not the sort of woman one fantasised about-,Even one so fallen as he knew that.

But in the months which came after, he had often found himself returning to that fantasy. Tweaking it. Perfecting it. Wanking himself off to the thought of his friend Molly, hot and wanton and desperate for him. Beautiful and perfect and utterly unaware just what he was thinking about her. He never let himself contemplate doing anything about these fantasies in real life; Molly was over him and that was how it should be. He was still not Boyfriend Material, no matter what John may think, and he wouldn’t hurt her for the world. She deserved better than that from him. She deserved everything good the world could give her.

And yet, tonight, when he’d walked in on her getting herself off whilst screaming his name, he had felt a sense of bewilderment. Anger. Loss. He had the oddest feeling of... betrayal, as if Molly had somehow taken advantage of him in thinking about him the way he’d been thinking about her for months.

 _It was not,_ he knew, _something which made any sort of sense._

In a daze he’d walked out of the flat, headed out into the darkness.

In a daze he’d stood in the light drizzle and tried to catch his breath.

The rain had chilled him as he stood in the cold and tried to will his erection away. Outside of Molly’s bedroom, and its sweet scent or sex and woman and homeliness, that should have been easy to do. But though he tried, he couldn’t help thinking of what he’d seen. What he’d heard. He remembered how beautiful Molly had looked through the open door of her bedroom, one little hand pressed against her mound, her long, slim legs akimbo. Her face red and slick with perspiration, her eyes squeezed shut. She’d come so hard she’d raised her arse up off the bed and it had been the single most erotic thing Sherlock thinks he’s ever witnessed-

She’d been more beautiful than anything. More beautiful, even, than his sense of self-preservation.

And so he’d headed back inside. Ascended the steps to her flat in near silence.

Now he finds himself at her front door again. Key in hand. Heart hammering and cock hardening.

He lets himself in and pads through the flat, his familiarity with his surroundings making it unnecessary to turn on the lights.

The place is utterly quiet and utterly still.

The scent of arousal still hangs on the air.

He spies Molly through her bedroom door, sheets kicked off her in the aftermath of her passion. She’s naked, except for some pink woolly socks; Her hair is a mess across her pillow, and her breathing is deep and even and loud.

She is, needless to say, very, very beautiful.

Sherlock is, needless to say, rather unsure whether he should be here- But he still steps inside.

He kneels down beside her. He pulls off his leather gloves and strokes a stray hair away from her face. Tries not to become overcome by the sweet knot of sentiment which curls inside his chest. He knows he shouldn’t be in here- He hasn’t been invited, not to see her like this- and yet he can’t help but want to stay. He can’t help but marvel at the sight of her. She frowns in her sleep, flops over onto her front, and he takes that as his cue. Pulls the covers up over her tenderly.

He leans down and presses a single, nearly-shy kiss to her forehead. (She smiles at it in her sleep and his heart gives a most uncharacteristic... skip.)

His mood lighter, Sherlock wanders out of her room, towards the bathroom.

He’s come in in the dark before and gotten in bed with her, there’s nothing new in that. But if he gets into bed with her in the state he’s in right now she’ll probably get the fright of her life- His erection is so hard it’s becoming quite uncomfortable, and explaining it to her if she wakes up is more than he feels up to right now. So for that reason, he thinks, a shower is in order. He can’t bear the thought of joining her in bed, looking and feeling like _this._ And he can hardly wake Molly and ask her to do something about it- Not if he values the organ in question-

So he turns on the water, carefully undresses. Takes some shower gel in his hands and begins to lather himself up. His skin becomes slick and wet as he washes himself. Cleanses himself. The noise of the shower is loud but he knows it won’t wake her- _At least, it never has before_. And he can take care of himself under the spray without having to make a scene, he thinks. He can get himself decent enough that he can face her- that he can sleep in the same bed as her and not embarrass them both-

Tomorrow, he tells himself, tomorrow, when they wake, he’ll ask her about ... About how she feels about him.

Tomorrow he’ll ask her whether she still wants him. Whether she might like to try to be more than friends.

 _But this is not tomorrow,_ he tells himself firmly as he takes himself in hand _; for now, his own ministrations will have to do..._

And so, he leans one hand on the tile before him and dips his head. Gives the first, firm tug on his cock, his eyes fluttering closed as he does so. He bites his lip at the pleasure he feels. Molly is behind his eyelids, staring up at him with such fondness. Such lust. _Such adoration_. He begins to stroke and pleasure himself, the water raining down on him. It runs over his sensitized skin in rivulets and droplets. It lashes his flesh with veins of wetness and want. He’s moaning her name over and over again, like a prayer- Like a plea- Like an bloody incantation-

In her bed Molly Hooper opens her eyes. Cocks an ear.

She sits up and wonders who tucked the bedcovers so neatly around her.

A familiar whisper of shampoo and cologne hang on the air and she has her answer; it makes her cheeks redden.

 _He’s here,_ she thinks.

In the darkness she frowns, hearing her shower work, the sound of the water loud and echoing against the tile.  

But what’s even louder- and more surprising- is the sound of Sherlock Holmes grunting her name over and over again... “Molly,” he moans. “Oh Molly, Christ, Molly... Sweet thing, good little thing, fuck me fuck me...”

She gets out of bed. Pulls her dressing-gown around her.

Stealthy as a shadow she makes her way towards the bathroom door, her heartbeat thundering and a slow, warm ache beginning to pool between her thighs...


End file.
